Art of War
by midnight9383
Summary: Loki endured a year of the harshest torture imaginable at the hands of Thanos, only to be confined to a stark white cell on Asgard. He has so much he needs to explain; to his mother, his brother, his wife. Eventually he is paid an unexpected visit. Goes back and forth in time; rated M for language, sex, adult themes; might eventually have AU elements.
1. Prologue

Prologue

**First fanfic ever. It would be really really awesome if you reviewed…. Constructive criticism, compliments, advice is very welcome! I'd like comments so I know if I should keep writing or not…**

"Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak."  
― Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

Day ninety-three of captivity ended just like every other.

At least, she thought it was day ninety-three. It was a rough estimate, as good of an estimate as she could make. How could one keep track of time, locked in a bare, dark room for at least a quarter of a year? The only sense of time she had was from the long, narrow windows fifteen feet above her head. Black cast-iron bars ran vertically along each window, preventing any captives from escape—as if anyone could escape when the windows were little more than slits, and too high on the wall to be reached. Through the slits, she could vaguely tell the time of day. She could see when the sky was blue; she would look at it until her eyes burned, eager to see some sort of color. Even her _visitors_ seemed to be colored in shades of black and white and grey.

What had happened? A few years ago she had been just a child. She swam naked in the river with her cousins. Her mother would scold her for riding her horse past dark. She and her brother fed ham to the dogs under the table, and her father would laugh. She would skip her lessons to flirt with guards who were too old for her; she hadn't even bled yet. Her father wasn't too happy about that.

It was perhaps three hours after dark—and only a few minutes after her _visitor _left—when she fell asleep. Then came the dreams. They were getting more and more solid; the felt nearly real, as if to compensate for the bizarre, nightmarish events that took place during her days.

She was climbing a pile of dead bodies. She had never seen a dead body until just ninety-three days ago, but she remembered what they looked like, what they _smelled_ like, all too well. They smelled like blood, and raw meat straight from the butcher, and when they had been left to rot, they smelled just like dead animals, like when she would wander around her father's keep and find a dead cat or rat in the corner of an old, unused room. When she looked closer, they were men—and women—that seemed to be from every realm. Why was she stepping on the bodies of her countrymen? Some of these were not her enemies. But they were, she didn't know why, and she was angry.

Some of them looked all too familiar. Was that her _brother's_ chest she was stepping on? She stepped on the face of a strange grey-haired man whom she vaguely recognized, but whose name she could not place. His mouth opened, only to be filled with squirming white maggots. His eyes oozed a river of pus and blood.

She stepped on a blonde woman's hair, causing the woman to jerk awake, blood sputtering from her mouth. She had a deep stab wound in her chest through her blue silk gown. The woman looked at her desperately, taking shallow jagged breaths.

"You're a woman," the woman said, surprisingly clearly considering her near-death state.

"I'm a woman," she repeated back to the woman, confused.

"You're a beautiful woman."

"Am I?"

"You know you are," replied the blonde woman. "Use it. Get out." The woman's face crumpled into a look of deep sadness, maybe even regret. "I'm not supposed to be telling you this."

She awoke to the sound of the heavy metal door being opened. She was so accustomed to it by now that she didn't even jump. The pale, ugly guard came with a towel and a bucket of water.

"Wash your cunt," he screeched. She was convinced those were the only words in her language that he knew. Sometimes he threw in various adjectives, like "dirty" or "whore". The first time he told her to "wash her cunt", she couldn't understand his thick accent and had been hit when she had asked him to repeat himself. Her _main_ visitor was angry that she had been hit; he wanted to _keep her pretty_. No small wonder; all of the women from his realm seemed hideous to her.

He threw the towel at her, and she dipped it in the bucket full of soap and steaming hot water. She undressed and slowly washed herself, not caring about the guard's voracious stares. After all, she was only a _woman_. And that's how men looked at women. She smiled to herself.

She was getting out. Maybe not today, or the next day, but she was getting out.


	2. Purgatory

"Be extremely subtle even to the point of formlessness. Be extremely mysterious even to the point of soundlessness. Thereby you can be the director of the opponent s fate."  
― Sun Tzu

Loki lay back-down on his twin-sized bed. The sheets were a grey-green but the entire room—the floor, ceiling and the walls that weren't glass—was a stark, eye-burning white. He threw a cup in the air, catching it with his right hand. Sometimes when he was really bored, he'd try to catch it with his left hand. Or feet. Or mouth. He'd almost chipped his tooth. He had probably laughed for near an hour after that.

This was his punishment. A hundred years ago, or even just a few years ago, he would have thought this was worse than death. By now, however, he _really_ knew things that were worse than death.

It didn't change the fact that being imprisoned in this white room was boring, mind-numbing, and was driving him completely mad. Like putting a child in the corner when they do something wrong, he was left alone to _think_. Of course there were many things that he regretted, that piled on his chest when he lay down at night and tried to smother him in his sleep. He would have killed himself already, had he less pride.

He found it hilarious that the room had furniture. That was his special treatment—_furniture_. Because that would make it more comfortable, apparently. Furniture for the prince's cell.

The difference between hell and purgatory was this: his previous hell, his torture, _Thanos_, was incomparably worse than this by far. But he never had time to think. Sometimes he had tried to will himself to die, but usually he had been intent on living. To see the small number of people he loved, fewer than the fingers on one of his hands. To get revenge upon those who had wronged him. Being tortured, at least for him, did nothing but increase his anger. It made him set on living just to kill.

But purgatory—then there was purgatory. Such a useful Midgardian term to compare to this white cell, he mused. If torture hadn't yet driven him completely mad, this would. He thought of his brother and mother and father and _wife, _his anger towards all of them. Her prophecies had come true; he did disappoint her, he was sure of that. She hadn't yet come to visit him, if she were allowed to. Even if she hadn't been, she could find a way. She wasn't so much manipulative as forceful, charismatic, though she could be either…

Nobody had let him explain. Nobody had given him a trial. His actions had spoken for themselves, or at least they seemed to. That was no excuse for not trying him, however, but Odin could do whatever he wanted, couldn't he? As much as Odin was loved by many of his people, he had an ever-growing group of opponents. The older he became, he slowly grew more stubborn and even arrogant. And of course, he hated Loki. Loki couldn't bring himself to believe otherwise. Even when his mother visited and he insisted upon the idea, his mother's optimistic answers seemed doubtful, at least to his ears.

Odin wouldn't even give him a trial; his brother hadn't visited him; his mother refused to hear his explanations, perhaps not because she didn't believe any of it, but because the very thought of listening to him seemed like treason. She preferred to speak of mundane things. _How are you? Are you at least comfortable here? Do you enjoy your books? Your wife is doing well. War's broken out in Vanaheim._

_Why would you even ask that question? _he pondered._ No, I'm not comfortable here. No, I don't enjoy my books, I've read each at least six times. I don't want to hear about my wife. I don't care if there's war in Vanaheim._

He actually wondered if his wife had divorced him, or Odin annulled their marriage because of his "death" or his disdain for Loki or his trying to protect her from embarrassment. As if he actually cared for her. Whether or not Odin cared for him, Loki was certain he highly disliked his wife. Maybe he'd annulled it because her father had asked him to. Her father wouldn't do that without her permission, though; Loki was pretty sure he feared his daughter, at least a little.

Maybe halfway through his imprisonment (though he didn't know that at the time), she appeared while he was playing the cup game on his small, uncomfortable bed.

He never saw her enter, but that wasn't surprising. She was a skilled user of magic. As much as he was, probably. Of course she could materialize.

They locked eyes for perhaps an entire minute. She looked exactly as he'd remembered—blonde, streaming hair down to her slender waist, round blue eyes pointed at the corners. Pointy chin, high cheekbones, a generous mouth. Tall, but not too tall. Tall at least for being half light-elf. Slightly exotic looking, but not too unusual to be an undeniable beauty.

She finally looked over him—his face, body, hair.

"You look disgusting," she said with a hint of humor. "You're so pale."

He couldn't help but laugh. "You've finally come to visit me," he said caustically. In a moment his face changed from humor to doubt. "Are you really here?"

"Do you think you've gone so mad that you're hallucinating? Yes, I'm here."

"Odin let you visit?"

"Are you stupid?" She began pacing slowly, but she kept her eyes locked on his. "Do you think I'm unable to enter myself? Actually, no, I'm lying. I had some help from your mother and Fandral. His wife is able to make him do anything."

"Heimdall," Loki replied, not really paying attention to her words. He rose abruptly from the bed and walked towards her. "You need to leave. Now."

"No, I don't. I've hidden myself. Besides, he's not looking at me."

"You need to leave. Of course he's looking at you. Or me. You are going to get yourself _killed_." He raised his voice, and his faced twisted into a snarl. "_Get out_."

"Do you know what I've been doing, all this time? For the past year and a half?" she said levelly, ignoring Loki's paranoia.

"Stop this. Don't change the subject. Are you a fool? You need to leave." He was nearly shaking.

She completely ignored him. "I've been crying. I've been drinking. I've been loud about how much I hate your father. I've told everyone I hate you, then I tell them I love you. I've been creating failed conspiracies. I've been fucking other men. And what have you been doing? Probably sulking and complaining to your mother. Throwing things around your cell."

He flinched. "_What is your point?_" he practically shouted in her face. "What are you trying to tell me? You are being reckless. _You need to leave_."

"My point," she said, "is that we are doing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. What do you think he would see if I were plotting something?"

Loki didn't answer; he stared at her indignantly, stubbornly refusing to reply. She didn't have the time to stall.

"Not in the mood to answer, apparently. You have little to say, even after we've been apart for so long…" she turned and picked up a piece of fruit sitting on the table by his bedside. She nonchalantly took a bite. "What he would be alarmed by… is if I were quiet." She paused. "I have _friends_, Loki. I have always had friends. If I didn't, I wouldn't be here. I'm well-protected enough."

"You trust people too much."

"Do you really believe that? _I'm_ too trustworthy? Anyway, you can't have trust in absolutely nobody." She turned around. She was uncomfortably close to him. She shouldn't have felt _uncomfortable_ being close to her own husband. "My point is, I know he's not looking. He's not watching us when there's war and conspiracy." She turned around to face him. "_When there's Thanos_."

"Don't."

"You're not going to hide from that forever, are you? I know you won't. You want to get out of here, precisely because of him."

Loki stepped toward her again. His hands were shaking. "He will kill you. I betrayed him. I need to get out of this place."

She cocked her head and smiled wryly. "Good news! You'll be freed. Or will escape, or something."

"You dreamt it. When?"

"How would I know? Sometime. In a month, or a year, or ten years. Do you think I'm given a date and time?"

He rolled his eyes. "Stop playing."

Her smile fell, and her tone became more serious. "You will get out. And you will help me. You have enemies. I have enemies. While you've been gone, I've found out far too many things…"

He knew exactly what she meant by that. Every ruthless Odin had done to anyone would never compare to _that_, at least in his eyes.

He grabbed her face roughly, unable to control himself. He pulled her body close to his and kissed her aggressively, squeezing her hips, trying to run his hands downwards…

She pushed away. "Itriel," he said. "_I love you."_

She batted her eyelashes and walked away through the clear barrier wordlessly.


	3. The Past and the present

**Honestly writing this was like pulling teeth. Girly dialogue is kind of ridiculous. I would know. I'm a girl.**

_Nearly 500 years earlier_

"Do you know how late it is?!"

"Hmm?" Svenja jerked awake. Itriel slowly rolled over, so used to having her mother wake her up for one reason or another that she eventually just began to tune it out.

"You _knew_ we were supposed to have lunch with the Queen! Get up. We can't keep her waiting the first full day we're here. You are truly the most irresponsible girls I know." She slammed the door on her way out, probably in an attempt to wake Itriel.

Svenja arose out of bed slowly and shook her cousin. Both had always shared a bed with someone, whether it was a cousin or a friend or a maid or a man. "I need to eat first," Itriel murmured, still half-asleep.

"We're eating lunch."

"What? Oh."

Itriel found something blue to wear. She hadn't had time to unpack anything, so she just tried to match her gown with the blue jewelry she wore yesterday. Svenja came out wearing black. Itriel's mother immediately made her change. "_What the hell are you doing? You don't wear black to have lunch with a Queen." "But why not? It goes with everything," _Svenja replied honestly.Itriel supposed Svenja just didn't really know better; her father had divorced her mother when she was young and the only things Svenja really knew how to do were to ride horses and fight with knives. She didn't mind lacking a mother though. Hers, as she always said, had always been a "right cunt" to her and her sisters. If her father was drunk, one could get him to confess that he didn't know why he had ever slept with that woman. "Maybe because she was pretty," he'd say. "At least my daughters got that."

Two other cousins, Runa and Aile, burst through the door, looking far more collected than Itriel and Svenja. Runa, who was typically quiet and sullen, was practically shaking with excitement.

"You look ridiculous. It's not a big deal. You just sit there, eat and be quiet," said Svenja, still drowsy and perhaps a little hung-over.

"But what if the Queen asks me a question? What if she tries to talk to me?"

"She won't. You aren't important enough. If anyone, she'll probably talk to Itriel. She'll probably want to marry her to Thor."

"_Svenja_," shouted Aile, "You're horrible. I think the Queen is a wonderful person, from what I hear, and she'll probably talk to all of us!"

"You are so incredibly dumb," replied Svenja.

"I'm not marrying anyone," mumbled Itriel as an afterthought.

Aile didn't bother replying to Svenja, but instead, struck an entirely new conversation. "I wonder if the prince is going to be there."

"Who, _Thor_?" Runa said excitedly.

"No, _Loki_."

"Why would a man be at a lunch specifically for all the women?"

"Because I think he _is_ a woman," replied Aile. Itriel threw her head back and started laughing, though she had no opinion on either prince. She thought about it, though. There was nothing wrong whatsoever with Loki. He was particularly tall and was slim but not skinny. He wasn't ugly, although not truly attractive. His face was pointy and his lips were thin. He may have looked androgynous next to his brother and father, though…

"You're always wrong with those kinds of things. Besides, I think he was looking at Itriel's chest last night," retorted Svenja, rolling her eyes.

"My dress was slipping," added Itriel, who was becoming disinterested in the discussion. She would have liked to abandon the conversation entirely.

"Every man thinks you're attractive! Next to you, I look like a potato!"

Itriel walked to the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror, changing her expression from that of anxiety to straight indifference. _Whatever comes of this, I can make the best of it. I always have. I don't have to marry for love. Imagine what I could do as a Queen._

_Present_

Hardly a week had passed since Itriel had visited her husband in prison. She had returned home to Vanaheim almost immediately afterwards, retiring to what was nicknamed "The Sun City" rather than returning to her father's estate, cold as it was in the middle of winter.

She lay abed with Olek, the lord of the city and her father's longtime friend (though he was quite young compared to her father). It was mid-afternoon, the hottest part of the day, and the sun shone streaming in through the western windows. Itriel lay on her side, running her hand softly down Olek's chest. He rose out of the bed and slowly dressed himself. _He's truly a beautiful man_, Itriel thought to herself. _Shame we're both married._

She sat up quickly, letting the sheets slip down her shoulders to reveal her naked torso. "I need to ask you a favor," she said slowly, biting her lip.

Olek smirked. "Yes? I _am_ indebted to you." Itriel stood, allowing the white sheets slip to the floor and pool around her ankles. He wrapped his arms around her waist. "I swear you are the most beautiful woman in the Nine…"

Itriel ignored him and pulled away, looking him in the eyes. "I need you to find someone for me. Amora. A sorceress. She may be working as a healer. Short, blonde, voluptuous."

Olek nodded. "I've heard of her. Where do you think I might find her?"

"Probably Asgard, possibly Vanaheim, but I highly doubt that. Wherever you find her, she'll be very _comfortable_. Quite rich I assume. And I think not very wary of someone watching her. But you still must be subtle. She has friends."

"Friends," he said, finally taking his eyes off of Itriel's breasts. "She's that powerful? I always assumed she became rich by sleeping with lords."

"She was _discovered_ by sleeping with lords. By even more powerful people…" she paused for a moment. "I need you to find her. Don't contact her. Just track her. Keep me updated. Just be quiet about it. The fewer people involved in this, the better."

Olek gave a mischievous smile. "And what is it you want with her?"

"I don't truly know yet. I'm quiet flexible. I'm not certain of what will happen in the next few months…" Itriel looked away and her eyes looked glassy. She slid a corseted blouse over her head and pulled up a pair of leather pants. "Let me tell you a secret."

Olek cocked his head to the side and smirked. "And what is that?"

"She wronged me and I would really like to see her dead." With that she left the room.


	4. Soothsayer and Snake

_I'm a princess, cut from marble, smoother than a storm. / And the scars that mark my body, they're silver and gold._ "Yellow Flicker Beat"

"You're skilled at divination."

"So they say." Itriel plucked the petals off of a flower and didn't meet Loki's eyes.

"Don't play with me." Loki walk ahead of her and turned, forcing her to look up. "Will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" she said coyly. She couldn't help but to start laughing.

He was growing impatient. "What do you want in return?"

"I don't charge," she replied, grabbing another flower from the bush to her right. "I'm not a prostitute." This sent her into another fit of giggles.

Loki's lips twitched upwards into a smirk. "You're intolerable. I don't see how you have any friends." His face quickly switched back to its typical look of apathy. "Why would you do this for me?"

Itriel threw the flower to the side of the path, petals now all plucked off, and turned to face him. "You make me curious. Tonight. After dinner." She turned and walked away before getting a response.

Hours later at dinner, neither made eye contact the entire time. Loki watched Itriel sit up straight and answer all of Frigga and Odin's questions with exceedingly polite but honest answers. _She's charismatic. She can act a perfect lady when she wants_, he thought to himself.

Her entire family had left nearly a month ago. Loki had been glad to see them off. He had become tired of the festivities practically from the moment they started. It had been a strain to Loki's whole family to entertain them.

But the king and queen had left their daughter behind.

Frigga had told Loki that Itriel had stayed behind so that she could be taught more complex magic. She had the skill for clairvoyance apparently, something of which Loki had never been capable. Who better than to teach her but Frigga, who was perhaps the most skilled seer alive? Loki of course suspected that she had alternative motives for keeping the princess in Asgard, or that the princess herself had her own motives; everyone, especially other women, spoke rumors. _She's Odin's mistress_, some said. Or_ she's actually an assassin. Do you know how many people she's killed? They want to keep her in their employ._ The most prominent rumor was that her parents left her under some other guise so that she could seduce and marry Thor. _But she's a dirty whore_, they said. _She's been used_. They said it as if they were sympathetic. _Women_, thought Loki, _are such jealous, insincere creatures_. The ones at court, anyway. Then he remembered that he probably disliked the men more.

"What do you want to know about yourself? Do you want to know what all men want to know? When you'll die, if you'll ever fall in love?" Itriel finally asked when they met in the furthest corner of the gardens after dark. "You men are all so boring."

Loki paced slowly in front of her, looking at the ground. He looked up, meeting her eyes but quickly looking away. "First of all, what does this _entail_? What are we doing, exactly?"

"Don't you know anything? I thought you were educated. Why won't you look me in the eye? Why won't anyone look me in the eye in this damned realm?" she said as an afterthought. "Your mother will be very unhappy with me for doing this."

"She won't have to know."

"She _will_ know." Now it was her turn to pace. "But I suppose you are my only friend here. Or at least, your irritable company gives me some semblance of friendship."

He finally stopped pacing and met her eyes. "You have not gotten the best impression of Asgard's court," he said, chuckling.

Itriel was nearly going to have an outburst at this point, but she controlled herself. "No, I have not," she said levelly. "The men think they are warriors when they never have seen war. One day they won't be laughing about murder when their cities are burned and their wives raped. The women just hate me."

"I suppose I can agree with that. The women just don't want more competition for _marriage_. This isn't your realm and you're not going to be _worshipped _anymore. You're just another presence at court," he said acidly.

"Ahhh, just when you seem like you're capable of empathy… you are so predictable. Should we start this?" She took his unfriendliness with ease as if she were comfortable with it._ Is she so desperate that she would prefer my company to loneliness, even if I talk to her like this?_ Loki asked himself for maybe the tenth time that week. He didn't really keep company with women outside of the bedroom, but that wasn't uncommon for the men in Asgard. Every woman his age who was present at court either wanted only marriage or Thor. Often both. Not that Loki didn't have a few women at his beck and call. Just perhaps not as many as he would like.

"Yes. You never answered my question. What exactly does this involve?" he asked again impatiently.

"Do you have the snake?"

Loki pulled a dead snake out of his pocket and threw it on the ground. "This is a pathetic snake," Itriel said. "This is just a garden snake. Wouldn't you prefer a viper, _Prince_? Or are you just a garden snake?" She picked up the snake by the tail, whirling it around a little, much like a little boy would. "I used to play with snakes as a child. I thought they were pretty. I have to ask, why did you pick a snake?"

"If anything, that's what people compare me to," he spat while smirking devilishly.

"That's offensive! They must not know that snakes represent so many good things. Fertility. Wisdom. _Sex_." She pulled out a knife. "I stole this off of a dead body," she said, smiling.

"_Fascinating_. Why is that even relevant?" He could guess what she was going to do with the knife; she needed his blood, of course. For a rather intimate, accurate reading.

"I thought you might be interested. Give me your arm."

"Why my arm? Why not some place more discrete?"

"Come on, are you afraid of a scar? You don't show your arms anyway. Don't act like a spoiled little girl. Give me your arm."

He did so, begrudgingly. She cut a long line down his arm. The cut wept blood and stung, though it wasn't very deep. Itriel had an apathetic, almost clinical expression on her face. She wiped at the dark red liquid with a small towel, letting it absorb as much blood as possible, pinching his skin a little to encourage its flow.

"One more ingredient," she said, nonchalantly throwing the towel on the ground. "Just a little hair."

"Is this really necessary?" Loki baulked.

"You know it is. Here." She sliced off a small lock with her knife. Loki didn't look too pleased. She bent down and wrapped the hair in the bloody towel. She picked up the snake a few feet away and placed it on top. "Throw the twigs down." He did so.

"Now sit across from me."

"So commanding," Loki said with humor. After all he really didn't dislike her.

"I'm not being paid for this. I don't have to be polite." She kindled the fire using only the magic flowing from her hands. Both sat quiet for what seemed to be an eternity. Suddenly Itriel's jaw went slack; her eyes widened and became unfocused and disconcertingly glassy.

Loki became impatient. "_Tell me something_. How much longer?"

"Be… patient. You have thousands of years left… to live," she said slowly. "It's…. so cloudy."

"Tell me something. _Please_."

"So… desperate." Her eyes widened further. "You will be… a source… of pride and disappointment. Equally."

"What?" his face twisted into confusion and slight anger. "But what do you see? What in the hell do you see?"

"Sometimes… I only see in ideas. Wait. Everything is moving so quickly. I see stars. You fall through stars. Travel through stars. Everyone is kneeling. Only because you're forcing them." She paused. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't see anymore. It's one great cloud of stars!" She rose and started pacing almost hysterically.

Loki got up quickly and grabbed her by the shoulders. _Too rough. I shouldn't have,_ he thought. He felt bad. He had never seen her express any sort of negative emotion. But his thirst for knowledge interested him more. "You. Are. Lying. Tell me what you saw."

"I promise! I'm not lying about anything. I swear. I swear!"

Loki turned and walked away. "Shit," he said quietly. Then louder. "Shit. Shit! _Shit_. Why? Why did I not expect this?" He turned towards her again. "Perhaps you're just not as talented as I thought," he said acidly.

"You are a _child_! This is what you do when you don't get what you want?" He turned and walked away quickly, leaving her in the darkness.

_Perhaps I'll need to make new friends,_ she thought to herself.


	5. Audience with a King

Chapter is somewhat disturbing. You have been warned.

"Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting." –Sun Tzu

_Present day_

For the first time since her visit with her husband not quite a month ago, Itriel walked through the marble halls of Odin's palace. She was flanked on each side by a guard. She walked quickly and purposefully, boots hitting the smooth stone floors with a _clack_ that echoed off the high ceilings and throughout the hall. Guards and maids looked at her and whispered. _Why is she here? Is she not embarrassed? Is she not ashamed on account of her husband?_

But Itriel hardly took notice. She had tasted enough shame and misfortune throughout her life. She had much more important things to pay attention to today anyway.

"Audience with the king," she barked at the guards who stood on each side of the enormous oaken doors leading into Odin's throne room. "Stay here," she said to her own guards much more politely. Each bowed slightly and stood next to Odin's guards by the doors. She liked them. She had chosen them for a reason, of course. And they were her friends—there is so much more success in treating one's allies well rather than acting too superior, too distant. Or that was her philosophy.

She halted abruptly in front of Odin, who, instead of sitting on his throne, was pacing in front of it. "My King," she said, bowing slightly. She noticed he looked much older, and perhaps ill. The lines in his face had deepened. His hair was growing ever the more white, and his skin looked sallow. "Why have I been called here?" she asked innocently. She had a pretty good idea; there were only two reasons why he would have summoned her.

Odin finally sat. "I am guessing that you have an idea." He paused. He said only one word next: "Amora."

_Ahh. So Frigga never broke. She never told her husband I visited Loki. How I love that woman_, she thought to herself. But somebody did let it slip that she had been spying on Amora. But it didn't matter. Itriel always prepared for the worst that could happen. That was a skill that Loki lacked. He only ever prepared for what he wanted to happen. So much genius, such little self-control.

"What would I want with her?" she asked with no added emotion. She was neither going to play coy nor be sarcastic. She wanted to shock him.

Odin rose and started pacing again. He didn't know how to answer. "Revenge, perhaps. I suppose you have a good reason."

"I wanted revenge at first. But I've realized, she's only a pawn. She was paid to do what she did. Wasn't she the daughter of a stable boy? All she wanted to do was advance, and I can't blame her entirely." She paused, meeting Odin's eyes. She had become able to influence others' emotions so imperceptibly that even Odin would not notice that his suspicion of her motives was waning. Empathy slowly blossomed in its place. "If anything, King, I would want revenge on you."

He raised his eyebrows but did not look shocked. With his change in emotion, he didn't feel threatened by her statement; she was just being candid. The princess had more to say, and so he listened.

"But… you did what was truly in my best interests. I wouldn't have wanted to give birth to a monster… another _thing_. I had the chance to do that so many years ago… and I didn't take that chance." The fact that she was telling Odin this—even though he already _knew_—made him all the more sympathetic. Tears welled in her eyes, but they _were_ real. "All I want from her is that she reverse this curse."

"Mm. Why did you go behind my back, then? Why did you not speak to me of this before you decided to try to contact her?" The king was not yet truly convinced.

"I shouldn't have. I was afraid. Afraid you would stop me from doing this. I _truly_ apologize." Itriel held the king's gaze. "But this is for my happiness. Please. Annul my marriage to Loki. If somehow he escapes from that cell, I will not want to be with him again. I can swear on my life to that. He has done too much damage. I have had enough shame and unhappiness in my life. You know that I am a practical woman. Allow me to get Amora to reverse this curse."

Odin at least admired her forwardness. Itriel was unlike most women. She didn't cry or beg at his feet; she never expected anyone to know what she wanted to say. "After hundreds of years of marriage, you have fallen out of love so quickly?"

"I will always have love for him. But I know that I cannot and should not ever be with him. And though I love him, I don't _want_ to be with him."

_Very well. She is sincere enough. As long as I can keep track of her—and I will—nothing could possibly happen from this_, Odin mused. He had noticed that she had, indeed, starting taking attention to other men in her father's court in Vanaheim, and her attentions truly seemed authentic. She had always been a faithful wife to Loki; if she were still faithful, she would not be courting other men. "I will agree to annul your marriage. I will not forbid you from contacting Amora. See what you can do."

She bowed. "I cannot thank you enough."

Itriel had immediately travelled back through the Bifrost to her father's palace in Vanaheim. She lay on the bed in her old room, the room she had when she was a child, unable to sleep until well into the night. If she slept she would dream. From the day's events, the dreams would not be good.

She had been successful. She was able to sway Odin. And not everything she said had been a lie, either; she _didn't_ want to kill Amora anymore—that was said to Olek in anger, and she _did_ want the curse reversed.

But breaking the curse that had been put on her would not erase the past.

She hated that she had called her own child a _monster_. No child born out of love could be a monster, whatever its race. Odin had hired Amora to kill the baby in her womb. After all, he couldn't let Loki know of his true heritage, apparently.

Odin had blamed the child's death on what Itriel had done in the past. For that had hated herself for so long. _The trauma to your womb,_ Amora had said, _has made you unable to carry a child to term_. It was a fair statement. Truly believable. The crude backwoods abortion that had been carried out with a sharpened stick and some poison had nearly killed her. If she thought about it, it was not only possible, but probable, that it had damaged her in some way. But it had been the only option at the time. For the time being, she could not have thought about any possible consequences. It would have been impractical. She was focused only on staying alive, not being captured, getting _it_ out of her.

Itriel knew that when Odin had told Loki that he meant to tell him eventually that he was lying. Odin had given up on peace with the Jotuns long ago. And though he may have, in some way, loved Loki, but he had never really liked him. Deep in Odin's mind, he had one base, fatherly, animalistic instinct: Loki was competition for his own son, no matter how much he had insisted the opposite. As Loki grew older, Odin grew ever the more suspicious of him. He wasn't one of them. He wasn't of Asgard and he wasn't Odin's own son. Every small unusual thing that Loki did was a source of distrust (and perhaps, with Odin's _different_ treatment of him, Loki became ever the more defiant and "untrustworthy"). His suspicion of Loki permeated into the minds of others at court, and Loki became distrusted by everyone.

Itriel rose from her bed and poured a large glass of strong wine. She brought it to her bedside cabinet, where she took out a vial of some unknown liquid given to her by her cousin, who just called it "sleep aid". Probably not wise to mix alcohol and whatever this was, but Itriel felt a little reckless. She was so anxious that her chest hurt and she thought she might vomit.

Odin was an idiot if he didn't think she would get her revenge. And Itriel was more than confident that Amora would yield to the highest bidder.


	6. Everybody talks

Everybody talks

I haven't written this in forever and I had a sudden fancy to start again. For the love of God, if you like it, review, or I probably won't write more.

Camouflaged in a grey burlap cloak, which did next to nothing to keep out the frosty biting winds of the northern Vanaheim winter, she walked into a seedy tavern at the edge of town.

She had not encountered any Dark elves in three days. The Vanir forces were fighting them back, and thousands of elves had taken to their ships and fled Vanaheim. The small village bore the marks of their occupation, however. Some buildings had been burned to the ground, their charred back ashes dispersing through the city in the cold winds. A giant pit, perhaps twenty by ten yards and ten feet deep, had been dug into the frozen ground just south of the tavern; men worked all day under the grey sky to bury the dead, mostly men but some women and children too. Most hadn't died in combat; the elves wouldn't have bothered fighting the peasants in a small impoverished town like this. No, they had died a much worse albeit less grizzly death of starvation. Hunger, the silent killer. Some of the bodies were stripped naked, collarbones and ribs protruding against papery thin skin. Itriel looked onward, unbothered.

Her hair was in mats. She had chopped most of it off with the knives she had stolen from the keep in which she was inprisoned. She was at an age where, without her hair and in the baggy unisex cloak, she was virtually indistinguishable from a boy. She was, however, old enough to realize that missing her monthly blood meant trouble. Catastrophe, for the situation she was in.

"Moon tea*", she said to the middle-aged woman who had set up an herb shop in a dirty corner of the tavern. She presented the women with not coins, but a jeweled dagger, which technically speaking probably cost enough for ten thousand pounds of the herb. Under normal circumstances, a starved young girl buying moon tea would have caused large amounts of suspicion, but the grey-haired woman just grunted, took the dagger and handed her a small sack.

She exited the shop and walked a half mile past the burial pit to the dilapidated barn in which she was hiding. There she brewed the bitter tea, drank, and waited.

Loki was desperate-no, starved-for her attention. That's why he was flirting with Ona Svensdottir, the eldest daughter from an extremely wealthy merchant family who was staying at the palace to be another one of Frigga's ladies-in-waiting. She was an attractive girl, with curly dark hair and a well-shaped rear, and she was just as beautiful as Itriel, or so he tried to convince himself. He was still supposed to be angry at Itriel, from that idiotic prophecy, so he ignored her completely on a generous day and made sharp, sarcastic comments to her on a less generous one. Truthfully, he had been told byher everything he had, deep in his heart, expected to hear. And now that it was confirmed by Itriel's questionable sorcery, he was secretly terrified.

Loki had just walked off sweaty and bruised from the fighting pits, where he had been sparring with Fandral, when Ona approached and lavished him with praise for his _ingenious _fighting. And that's when he saw Itriel give him the look.

Frigga had recommended that Itriel only spar with Sif and the other female warriors (of which there were few) and she had shrugged, complacent, or rather just carelessly agreeable to Frigga's wishes. Itriel had not had an easy time in Asgard. Everyone talked too much at court, and in speaking of Itriel, they were ruthless. Loki wondered what kind of girl she had been like at her home in Vanaheim, but here she hung her head and didn't say much.

But as soon as Ona walked away from Loki, cheeks flushed and smiling flirtatiously, he saw Itrielfrom the other side of the fighting pits. A new friend of hers, whose name he didn't recall even though she was the daughter of one of Odin's high-ranking officers, was helping her off her horse. And all the while, Itriel's eyes were locked on Loki's in a stony glare. He would have thought it was because of the way he generally treated her, but she usually didn't bother making eye contact with him, even during his unfriendly jibes. He saw Itriel say something to her friend, who turned to look at what seemed to be Ona, and vehemently shook her head._ Is she prettier than me? _Itriel had asked her friend. _Tell me. Honestly._

_NO, Itriel, not if Hel is hot. Why do you like him? He's a complete bastard, and isn't even attractive. You'd have better luck with his could be a queen one day, yet you focus only on Thor's cock of a brother._

The pain in her abdomen was searing, hot in contrast to the biting winds that entered through the cracks in the old barn. She hadn't started bleeding yet and it had been _hours_.

She coughed raggedly. From travelling and sleeping in the cold, she had caught something, perhaps pneumonia. She felt feverish and light-headed, and didn't know if it was from the moon tea or the cough. She spat blood into the rotting, frosty hay that littered the ground of the barn. If only blood could start coming out the other end now.

She crept to the outside of the barn to draw water from the icy well and drank straight from the bucket. Maybe some water would help her sickness. Going back inside, she tried to sleep under her ragged cloak on the straw ground.

"A dance?" asked Loki, eyebrows cocked, to a lone Itriel, who was sitting at the end of the banquet table.

She said nothing, but got up grudgingly.

"I saw you at the pits today," Loki said to her with a smirk. "You seemed to be paying attention to Ona and I."

"Yes, you _were _in my line of sight," Itriel said carefully. _What in the hell did he want? Was I looking at him too... jealously?_

"Oh, you stared too long is all."

And that was it. She snapped. "Just looking at the pathetic child who can't take my prophecies like a _man_. Poor Ona, if only she knew how childish you are. She wouldn't want to marry some prepubescent little _boy_."

Loki grabbed her shoulder roughly for the second time in the past month. "I. Am not. A child. And you will not treat me as such_. Quit playing games _with me, you jealous petty quim."

Itriel pulled away. The other dancers did not seem to notice their argument, and went about twirling on the banquet floor. "Petty? I'm petty? When you're the one throwing a fit over prophecies that may not even come to pass? I should tell your mother about the way you have been treating me. I know you'd be scared of _her _wrath. I knew from the moment I met you that _you're just a spoiled brat prince*_*."

Loki's face automatically went blank at the mention of his mother, just for a short second. Oh, she really knew how to push his buttons. He said the only thing that came to mind. "Then _why _did you accept my offer to read my future?"

"Because I saw something different in you. But unlike you, I can admit that I was wrong."

With that, she broke the dance and slinked out of the ballroom.

*I stole moon tea from GoT.

**Brat Prince. Anne Rice. Amirite?


End file.
